


Wildflowers

by Writing-Rammstein (writingfanfic)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Rammstein
Summary: For the prompt: 'Hey could I have one where Till disappears for ages & the reader is worried & he comes back with flowers and wood for the fire all apologetic bc he wanted reader to be warm.'





	Wildflowers

You tap your fingers on the mug, and look up nervously at the clock. It is not unusual for Till to vanish for hours on end, you know this - hell, days is the standard. If he’s gone longer than a week, Richard joked once, you should probably put a steak outside on a plate so he can find his way home.

That doesn’t mean you don’t worry though.

It was eight o’clock in the morning when he woke you with a gentle kiss and a murmured explanation that he was going ‘out’ - your German and his English are at roughly the same level, so you can get most anything explained, but you worry. Oh, you worry, so deeply, that you missed something in what he said, and you will be up all night waiting for him. It is now 6 p.m., and the sky is beginning to bruise from the horizon upwards.

You are nearly out of wood; you can start a fire - what self-respecting adult human can’t, especially one taken camping by her family - but you know that there isn’t much wood outside in the log shed. Till’s ‘escape house’, as he calls it, is wonderfully off-the-grid, except you have relied on the grid for a long time. You sigh, and lean over, poking the logs a little - the flames dance up, and you smile gently, before biting your lip once more.

The door creaks open, and you turn, eyes widening; Till stands in the doorway, and smiles apologetically as you sigh in relief.

“I thought you’d wandered off into the woods to die,” you say, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t you think that is an exaggeration?” he asks, and you fold your arms. “I have been walking.” You smile, a little sadly - this man will never truly be yours. There are corners of his mind that he and he alone can access, and sometimes he needs time to go out and talk to them. But you want all the parts he is willing to give you. “I have also gotten wood for the fire.”

“ _Danke_ ,” you say, and he smiles.

“ _Gern geschehen_.” He looks a little sheepish, almost shy for a moment, and then extends his hand - in it, he holds a bunch of wildflowers, and you gasp, eyes lighting up. “I do not usually like to pick flowers, but they are for you.” He clears his throat. “Consider it an apology, because I have frightened you.

You take them - they are scented with the thick, heady scent of pollen, not much else, but you don’t care, and stand on tiptoe to kiss his cheek; you have the pleasure of seeing his face turn a little red, and then he smiles at you.

“You will make a gentleman of me yet,” he says, without rancour, and as he goes outside again, rounding the corner to the woodshed, you put the flowers in a vase, and coo over them a little more. There are pale, tiny blue ones, almost a cross between a bluebell and a forgetmenot - white snowdrops - and ones that look like buttercups. Where he found them in Germany in near-winter, you are unsure, but they are gorgeous - preserved by the snow, you assume, and smile again. In his wanderings, he still thinks of you, and that means more than anything.


End file.
